Digestives of Troy
by Lyphesis
Summary: Biscuits, always a vital part of life, have been mysteriously omitted from the Iliad. I blame later editing. But what if they were included once more...?
1. I : Civil War

Boredom in school combined with Classics leads to such thoughts as "What if they had biscuits in the Iliad?". This is the highly mental product of a string of double Physics lessons and a very silly mind, copied from near-illegible transcripts in a rough book. I, frankly, will get a life when I damn well feel like it.

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Agamemnon was awoken by the sounds of shouting, and pounding feet. Fearing an attack, he snatched up his sword instinctively, but remembered the informal ceasefire; it would hurt the Trojans more not to uphold it. Tentatively, he poked his head outside.

Soldiers, hundreds of them, were sprinting after a single, screaming enemy. Some of them were even cutting to the side to harness their horses. Before the whole mob disappeared into the distance, Agamemnon ran after it.

Soon the fleeing man seemed to tire. With a cumulative roar of triumph, the first row of the crowd collapsed on him, punching viciously. Agamemnon fought his was to the front.

"Men! Stop!" he boomed, "How dare you all gang up on one man?! Where is your sense of hono--" he paused, having got his first good look at the bruised man. "Achilles?"

"My lord?" he replied weakly.

"Why...on earth...are you all chasing _Achilles_?" Agamemnon shouted at the mob. "What's he done now?"

"For five years," ventured one man, "we have not known biscuits. But now we find _he_ is hoarding a packet of digestives. _Chocolate_ digestives." The crowd hissed, and Agamemnon looked at Achilles.

"Is this true?" he said, his voice dangerously low.

"I'm depressed," said Achilles defensively. "I need the sugar." He clutched the packet to his chest.

Agamemnon sighed and turned away.

"Go for it, boys," he said boredly, not watching them as they once more lunged at a screaming Achilles, swords drawn.

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My, my, isn't it short when it's typed? Anyway, the rest of the saga will soon be typed and posted. R+R, if you dare...


	2. II : Betrayal

Part two of the Biscuit Saga...mmm, the plot thickens, like the chocolate topping of a digestive...

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Late one night, a cloaked figure crept unseen through the camp. He passed the sleeping quarters without causing a stir, passing Achilles, who, confined to the infirmary, was not unconscious through choice.

He dashed across the dark plains, keeping low, till the great city walls loomed into view. He came to a stop outside a thick, bolted side door, and knocked. A moment later a hatch slid open with a crash, and a voice gruffly barked:

"Password?"

"Shortbread," hissed the cloaked man. Creaking bolts were drawn across and the door swung open.

"You have no idea how difficult it was this time," he snapped, throwing back his hood. He held up a bandaged hand which had been trampled twice the previous day. "You're not paying me enough."

"You're being payed more than adequately. Have you got the goods?"

The man scowled and pulled a battered roll of biscuits out of the folds of his cloak. The guard gasped.

"Chocolate digestives! An extra value bumper pack...and unopened." His voice was awed as he smiled darkly at the spy. "You've done well."


	3. III : Night Excursions

The soldier was almost out of breath, but the Greek camp was in sight. As he ran he pondered his alibi; Achilles was back, and had been prowling like a starved lion after he discovered the fate of his biscuits. _My absence won't have gone unnoticed,_ he thought, praying that he and Achilles wouldn't cross paths. His latest sale had been a box of ginger biscuits stolen from the other Myrmidons, so they weren't in the best of moods either.

When he reached the Myrmidons' ships, the area was reassuringly empty. Letting out a sigh, the soldier puched back his hood. He froze as he felt sharp, cold metal press silently against his throat.

"A Trojan?" hissed a low voice behind his ear. "I think not. Worse." The attacker clamped a hand over the soldier's mouth and threw him into a nearby tent. He cowered on the floor.

"My lord Achilles, I swear..."

"Shut up, traitor." He flicked the swordpoint up t ohis face. "You deserve to fry for this."

The soldier started to shake. Achilles seized his neck, forcing him up.

"Tell me," he growled, "when did this start? When did you decide the _Trojans_ were more in need than your own kin?"

The soldier took a shuddering breath, but couldn't speak.

"TELL ME!" roared Achilles.

"I...it...the shortbread was the first, sir, I swear. The Ithakan shortbread."

"As far back as that?" Achilles's grip tightened. "What about my digestives?"

"Y-yes. It was me. Please..."

"And the troops' biscuits?"

"Yes, just now..."

Achilles let go, throwing him to the floor. He swung his sword, expertly slashing the soldier's throat with a roar of anger. Blood quickly drenched the floor.

Patroclus leaned into the doorway, opening his mouth to speak, but then spotted the corpse on the floor and groaned.

"It took weeks of pillaging," he said in a pained voice, "to get ahold of that rug. _Now_ look what you've gone and done. What have I told you?"

"No killing indoors," said Achilles grouchily.


	4. IV : Games at Twilight

_Ta for all the lovely reviews, they light up my revision-strewn day. Anyhoo, I've been on a Classics trip for the last week, and thus have been inspired to reveal yet more of the true happenings of the Trojan War. _

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A group of soldiers gathered round, in dead silence. All eyes were fixed intently on the centre of the circle, only flicking away to check that their prize, a lone biscuit, remained untouched. Odysseus passed the black-clad knot of men and looked curiously in.

"What's going on?" he asked one on the outside.

"Just a game," the soldier said defensively.

"What kind? Are you…" the words stopped in his throat. Between the men he caught a glimpse of the biscuit they had carefully laid on a table in the middle. It was a beautiful, flawless chocolate digestive; its rich, rippled coat glistened in the sun, the irresistibly crumbly biscuit lying tantalisingly beneath.

"You're playing for _that_?" whispered Odysseus. "Whatever it is, I want in. Are you racing? Duelling?"

"I'm sorry, my lord…" two soldiers had instantly pushed him back. "We're under specific orders."

"Orders?! From who?" He forced his way through the crowd, saw the centre, and groaned. "Oh, right. They never invite me to games of wit."

Achilles, Patroclus and Antilochus were hunched tensely around a game board. Achilles held the dice aloft between his forefingers, a murderous glint in his eye.

"Colonel Mustard," he boomed, "in the study, with…a lead pipe." The crowd gasped as one.

Another Myrmidon stood a few paces away from the board, looking at the answers. His lips drew back in a leering smile.

"Incorrect."

Achilles snarled.

"Wait a second," cried Odysseus, "you're playing _cluedo?_" Two of them jumped at his approach, but Achilles remained calm.

"We," he said, perfectly composed, "are trying to settle an argument."

"What argument?!"

"The everlasting argument of…who's the best at Cluedo," Achilles said slightly sheepishly. He shrank back as Odysseus paced, looking at their cards.

"And the winner gets _that?_" he cried, pointing accusingly at the digestive.

"Yes. It's something for the men to bet on, I guess."

Odysseus walked authoritatively to the answer cards.

"Then I will help officiate. This I gotta see."

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Four hours later, Odysseus was starting to wilt.

"Mrs Peacock… with the candlestick… in the library?" said Antilochus a tad desperately.

"No," replied Odysseus faintly. Achilles threw the dice with weary determination and gazed into the setting sun. Odysseus sidled up to Patroclus in the meantime.

"I expected better from you," he hissed. "I thought that you, at least, were vaguely intelligent."

"I worked out the murderer just before you came," sighed Patroclus, "but there's been a vast drop in the death toll since Achilles has been here, you've probably noticed. So…ssh. This is probably best."

"Cunning," Odysseus conceded.

By this time Achilles had moved his counter – Miss Scarlet – to the ballroom. He slammed his cards to the table.

"REVEREND GREEN, IN THE BALLROOM, WITH…THE…" (Odysseus and Patroclus tensed) "…LEAD PIPE!" There was a brief, dead silence.

"No," they groaned.

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Later still, the sun set and the crowd gradually dispersed. Antilochus had left, and Odysseus and Patroclus sat with their feet up. Achilles had fallen asleep face down on the Cluedo board.

"He's less grouchy when he's asleep," said Odysseus.

"Yeah. He's like a little angel…quite an angry, bloodthirsty angel, but still," Patroclus sighed.

They paused.

"He snores a lot, though."

"Tell me about it."

"I can hear you, you know," murmured Achilles groggily.

"Shh, it's just a dream."

They heard a shout, and turned to see Agamemnon striding towards them, flanked by guards.

"Enough with these ridiculous games, Achilles!" he barked. "Yours, I'm sorry to say, is the strongest force on the Achaean side. We march on the south gate tomorrow, and you haven't even started to prepare. Mark my words, if this goes on, you'll be punished. By the way, that digestive you had over there was really nice, have you got any more?"

The three heads snapped round, their faces masks of utter horror.

"What? What did I say?"

"Do you have any idea," said Achilles, his voice shaking with rage, "how many cities I had to sack to get that digestive?"

"Achilles, what are you talking about? I…"

"Shut up!" he roared. "I swear to the gods, I will never fight for you again, you cowardly thief!"

"Oh, here we go," muttered Patroclus.


	5. V : Paris Fights

_It has been a long time (two years, oh dear) since I last updated; so long, in fact, that seems to have taken out borders or formatting or something so that my random author bits aren't separated from the main bit. Oh well. Last time I was here I was but a child, where now I am a responsible adult and a Classics student whose time is probably better spent elsewhere. However, I have decided that in the scheme of things, this is the best thing to be doing :)_

Paris's heart pounded as the two sides, roaring and clashing their shields, broke apart to create a clearing. Through the dust, he could see Menelaus walking forth, his heavy armour catching the light. His deep, threatening laugh echoed across the plain, and Paris gripped his spear more tightly.

"Come on!" roared Menelaus. "I'll let you make the first move, boy." The Greeks laughed and cheered behind him.

Paris took a few tentative steps forward, trying to do so as courageously as possible. He raised his spear to his shoulder, carefully watching the dust to tell the speed of the wind. And he threw, as hard as he could; the spear hit Menelaus' shield, but glanced off, clattering to the ground. Before Paris had time to move, Menelaus had thrown his own spear. He was knocked backwards by the force of it, and opened his eyes to see his shield impaled, the point of the spear stuck into the ground. He struggled to get up.

Menelaus walked up to him at a leisurely pace, playing it for his own troops. "You'll pay for what you've done, boy," he growled. He reached down and wrenched his spear out of the shield. Paris tried to move, but Menelaus seized the crest of Paris helmet and dragged him, his hands scrabbling at his chin strap, back towards the Greeks.

Aphrodite, high on Mount Olympus, could take no more. In an instant she flew down and bore Paris away, leaving an enraged Menelaus clutching an empty helmet. She gently put him down on his own bed, safe in the towers of Troy. He looked around, bewildered.

"W-What happened?"

"Ssh, darling. It's all going to be alright." Aphrodite smiled calmly, putting an arm around his shoulder. "I rescued you. You're in Troy now, safe and sound from that nasty Menelaus."

"WHAT? But...my honour! My reputation! They'll all think I've run away, what were you..."

"And I've brought you something you love!" interrupted a beaming Aphrodite.

"Something I love?" said Paris curiously. Aphrodite nodded vigorously and led him by the hand towards the next room.

"Ta-da!" she waved him in with a flourish. "Lovely chocolate hobnobs! And tea - two sugars, very weak! You can have a nice sit down for the rest of the battle." She stood watching Paris intently, clasping her hands together and smiling, waiting for his approval.

"Um..why?"

"You don't like it," she said. Her face fell into a pout. "I knew Hector was lying about how you wanted your tea."

"No, no! I do like it, but...wait, where's Helen?"

"Helen? Oh, I dunno. Back watching the battle, I suppose."

"Watching the battle? How COULD you?! Now she's all alone, and she thinks that I'm a coward...or that I'm dead! So does my brother! All my brothers! And my parents, and my people...Did you even think this through?"

Aphrodite nibbled a Hobnob pensively. "At the time, it seemed very sensible. You're safe, aren't you?"

"Safe? What are you talking about! I was doing fine, and there are more important things than my safety. There's honour, and my..." Paris was about to continue his tirade, but he stopped dead. "I really want a biscuit," he said passionately.

She held the plate up to him, and he took it ravenously. "The Goddess of Love saves the day again," she sighed, slipping out of the tower.

_***_

Meanwhile, the Greek camp had emptied for the battle, apart from a single cohort of black-clad warriors, most of whom were sunbathing or flicking stones at each other. Patroclus walked out smiling into the sunshine, until he saw a familiar figure crouched over the fire in concentration.

"Achilles, what are you doing?" he said in a light, measured voice.

"Sacrificing. What does it look like?"

"You know, traditionally the gods are quite keen on thigh-bones wrapped in their own fat. Those look like Malted Milks to me."

"These _are_ wrapped in their own fat," Achilles said, his voice pained. "What does it matter whether or not they're thigh-bones?"

Patroclus kneaded his forehead, sighing. "Achilles, I know there are cows on it, but a Malted Milk isn't an animal. It can't be wrapped in it's own fa...oh. I see what you mean." Leaning in slightly to get a better look, he observed as Achilles carefully tucked each biscuit between two slices of butter.

"I thought the gods might listen if we gave them something they liked. They can't be too thrilled with thigh-bones all the time," Achilles sighed.

"And this has nothing to do with how Malted Milks are your least favourite biscuits."

"Nothing at all."

"Then why don't you just pour a libation of wine?"

Achilles looked up slowly, his eyes blazing.

"Ok, ok. Just a suggestion."

"Don't ever touch the wine. Ever."

"Ok! Fine!" Patroclus turned away. "Maybe if you paid attention when I told you not to touch my Malted Milks..."

"What?" Achilles' head snapped around.

"Nothing."


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